


Taming the Wolf

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Cycle of Abuse, Face-Fucking, Humiliation, Leashes, M/M, Racism, Rape, Restraints, Sex Slavery, Slapping, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15287121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: After Garrosh reveals his feelings for Lo'Gosh, Rehgar decides to reclaim ownership over his slave by forcing him to serve other orcs.





	Taming the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flarenwrath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flarenwrath/gifts).
  * Inspired by [For Your Company](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7485030) by [Laeviss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss). 



> World of Warcraft takes a fairly lighthearted approach to Varian's slavery, but I have not done that here. This story deals with rape (both depicted and implied), (orc v. human) racism and racial slurs, violence, and shame, and if any of these topics are potentially triggering to you please don't proceed any further. Thank you!

Lo’Gosh’s hair clung to his brow, caked with sweat, sand, and, though he didn’t reach up to check, likely the blood of the ogre he had just ran through with his sword. Squinting, he lowered his head and followed Valeera’s back out the gate. The crowd roared around him, but with the sun beating down on his face it was hard to focus even on the sound of his name.

There was one thing, however, that kept him moving towards the exit. It was the last day of the week, and while he had waited to face the enemy team his gaze had sought out the box seats, confirming that, yes, Garrosh was in attendance again. He had seen him gritting his teeth, his brown skin glistening as he leaned against the rail, and when he had finally caught his gaze they had shared a look: pointed, telling of things to come. 

If he only defeated this team, there would be a bath and beer waiting for him in the warlord’s chamber. That alone was enough to keep his footfalls steady, despite the heat, despite the hitch in his breath and the way his leather sash stuck to his sweaty chest. He passed into the shade and finally relinquished his sword. 

Rehgar grunted something to the troll beside him, and then the slaver tugged the chain, raising the metal bars that stood as the only barrier between them. If the orc was pleased, he didn’t let the look reach his eyes, but the way his lips curled at the corners might have passed for a grin if not for his furrowed brows.

“Come on.” He stepped to the side and let Valeera and Broll file out into the tunnel. Lo’Gosh took this as a sign to follow, but Rehgar’s arm jutted between him and his teammates and pressed against the human’s bare chest. He looked down at it, and then over at Rehgar. The slaver just shook his head. “Not you, boy. Hold still. This will be easier if you cooperate.” 

Easier. What the hell was Rehgar on about? But Lo’Gosh didn’t have time to ask; the bite of cold steel dangling against his chest cut him off, and before he knew it, Rehgar’s thumb had hooked and attached a link to the ring of his collar. The chain’s weight forced him to bow his head. Something was wrong, and when Rehgar wrapped the other end of what was, effectively, the leash around the palm of his hand, something sank in the pit of his chest.

He hadn’t been chained like this since they arrived in the city. Something had pissed off his owner, but what? And why wasn’t Garrosh here? They had won their match. It was the end of the week, and the warlord should have a fat sack of gold to pay for their night together. He had been looking forward to the exchange, had made no secret of that, in fact, asking about Garrosh all day. He always satisfied him, and the rich orc always paid.

There was no reason for Rehgar to be anything but thrilled, but the way he tugged Lo’Gosh’s leash, his calloused fingers curling around the chain and his cracked nail grazing Lo’Gosh’s skin, felt anything but celebratory. 

So Lo’Gosh had to ask. “Well? Where’s Garrosh?” 

Rehgar grunted, tightening his hold as they rounded the inner ring and headed down to the cages. At first, it didn’t seem like he’d answer, but then he quipped, short and definite: “No Garrosh today.”

“Why not?” 

No Garrosh? The words felt like a blow to his gut. His chest tightened, and he shot Rehgar a look, seeking out some explanation from his tightly-drawn lips. But his owner stayed silent, and Lo’Gosh was left with nothing but their shuffling footfalls and his own breath for company. The group headed down a torch-lit ramp; he didn’t dare try his voice again until they reached the bottom, not because the orc had him by the neck—no, that hadn’t stopped him before—but because he didn’t trust the lump in his throat, the disappointment, the frustration.

But the wolf won out; gritting his teeth, he cut through the pause, swallowing, repeating in a voice thick with some feeling none of them wanted to address. “Why not? Aren’t you going to answer?”

Beside him, he felt Broll hold his breath, but he didn’t care. He needed to know. He dug his heels in the sand and earned the kind of reception he would have expected: a tug and a mutter, incoherent but clear in its meaning. A flicker of something other than torchlight passed over the slave master’s face, and finally the orc shot back a terse reply: “I made other plans for you.” 

‘What do you mean _other plans_?’ He wanted to say, but this time, at least, he managed restraint. Shaking his head, he caught up to the slaver’s pace. His collar no longer tugged at his neck, but that didn’t make his throat feel any less tight when he opened his mouth to reply, “But Garrosh will pay.”

The slaver laughed: curt, unexpected, like a door clanging shut in the shadows, and less than half as friendly as usual. Lo’Gosh’s shoulders tensed. 

“I’m sure he will, boy. But the Warchief’s pet has been getting a bargain. I can make five times as much if I rent you out here. No more of this playing boyfriends business. I don’t care if he’s Hellscream’s kid.” 

Lo’Gosh felt his jaw clench. Normally, the suggestion of ‘playing’ anything close to boyfriends would have left his face hot, but now there was far too much to take in. Rent him out…here? Five times as much? No. Rehgar could just ask Garrosh for more. Garrosh had to be one of the richest orcs in the city, between his comfortable room and the guards who brought him whatever he wanted, not to mention his ties with the Warchief. Something else had to be at play, something—

They circled around a cluster of orcs yelling and betting on dice, and a string of incomprehensible words brought something back to Lo’Gosh. Last week. That phrase. What had it been? _Mag’rosh._ Rehgar’s face had contorted into a scowl when he heard it, and for one horrible moment Lo’Gosh had worried Garrosh had cursed him, uttering something shameful while giving his arm one last touch. Rehgar had cut in and snapped that he had no right to say something like that to a slave, which, at the time, had made so little sense to Lo’Gosh. But now the pieces were falling together. It must have been some kind of affection…or declaration.

And whatever it meant, Rehgar was now intent on making a point.

The holding pens came into view around the next corner, and the blood drained from Lo’Gosh’s face. He silently cursed Garrosh for using that word, for whatever it was that had pissed off Rehgar enough to ruin their night together and to plot whatever it was he had in store. At the far end of the row of cages, two orcs waited and watched with arms crossed. 

Something about the glint in their eye made Lo’Gosh’s stomach churn, and he slowed. Rehgar tugged, and before he knew it, they were heading in their direction, to an open cage tucked in the furthest corner of the hall. The chill that passed over him ripped through the muggy air, but rather than offering any kind of relief it just left him feeling bereft. 

Everything seemed to stop. All he could feel was their gaze. Rehgar’s grip on his chain slackened slightly as he ushered Broll and Valeera into the adjacent pen, but the human didn’t have it in him to try to pull back and resist. Even the wolf seemed at a loss, just holding his breath and waiting for his predators to close in. 

On his left, the cage holding his partners squealed closed, and then Rehgar’s free hand was on his shoulder, his forearm pressing against his sweat-soaked hair. He gave him a pat, and the words he muttered hung in the air like a curse; everything kind or good-natured about them just added to the insult, backhanding him, and leaving him stunned:

“No offense, kid. I just can’t have Garrosh trying to claim you.”

And then, to the orcs: 

“Nothing I can’t have fixed by tomorrow, you hear me? I need him to win in the morning.”

Rehgar tugged his chain forward and passed it into the other orc’s hand. Lo’Gosh caught sight of his broken nails curling around the links before he squeezed his eyes closed, and then he was tugged, all but dragged, a few paces forward and into the open cell. 

It wasn’t until Lo’Gosh’s knees hit the ground that his fight finally came back to him. “Hey!” He growled, glancing between the orc who had thrown him and his master watching him through the bars. Pressing his hand in the sand, he tried to get back up to standing; his customer must have anticipated the trick because his hands flew to his shoulders and gave him a shove back down. 

Eyes narrowed, lips pursed in an indignant line, he looked up and snapped, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He wouldn’t put up with this: not here, not in front of his teammates, and certainly not with Garrosh waiting outside—

But his patron just grabbed his hair, tangling dirty fingers up in his ponytail and tugging him forward, forcing his face against the front of his leather pants. “What was that, pinkskin?” 

Lo’Gosh let out a choked sound that was muffled against the bulge. Wrinkling his nose, he squeezed closed his eyes and repeated, all too aware of his lips moving against the orc’s swelling cock. “I said ‘fuck you,’ knock it off.’”

“Watch it, boy,” Rehgar cut in from somewhere to his left, but the other orc laughed. He twisted and yanked Lo’Gosh’s hair until a cry rose to his lips.

“That’s all right, Rehgar. I like them with some fight in them.” Hooking his finger under the tie that held back Lo’Gosh’s ponytail, he jerked it and ripped it away, taking a few strands of hair in the process. The tug left the human slave reeling, and he fell back onto his heels. Before he had time to recover or scoot away, however, the orc’s dusty hand was under his chin, grabbing, shaking, forcing him to look up into his eyes, and it was all he could do to keep the indignant scowl plastered across his face. 

“Hey—” He tried again, but the customer cut him off. 

“I had fight in me, too, you know.” His nail dug in, the uneven edge catching and scratching Lo’Gosh’s jaw. He swallowed. The orc gave him another shake. “Every time the guards came for me, your people _brutalized_ me, I tried to fight back. How do you like it, huh? How do you like being stripped of your honor?” 

“I don’t—” Lo’Gosh started, but his words came too late. He felt the orc’s weight shifting slightly, and then his palm was there, slapping him across the face. There was a brief flash of darkness, and then a sting, blossoming and spreading from his cheek to the side of his head. He struggled to blink back the spots, only dimly aware of the commotion unfolding in the adjacent cell. 

“You must stop this,” he heard Broll insist, and then Rehgar cut in to add:

“No damage, Mazog, you hear me? You didn’t pay me enough to beat the shit out of him.” 

The orc muttered something he couldn’t quite catch, but for his part, Lo’Gosh was more concerned with the metallic tang on his tongue. He tried to slump forward, to press his palms against the sand and to spit, but Mazog’s hand kept his chin from angling down. He ended up missing; blood leaked from the corners of his lips, and the chain, now cold and forgotten, skittered across the ground.

And then Mazog let out a short laugh and added, pointedly and to him, “Guess it’s your lucky day, pinkskin.” Curling his fingers under his jaw, he forced Lo’Gosh’s face back against his pants, but this time it was his chin, not his nose, that made contact. There was no looking down or away, and if he closed his eyes he knew he’d get hit again. 

The only choice left for him was to stare up the orc’s belly and through the white hairs of his chest, up to his face and his lips curling in rage and disgust around tusks yellowed and cracked by age. When their eyes met, his narrowed; they were gold, just like Garrosh’s, but they smoldered with hatred rather than lust, and the way they flashed left Lo’Gosh’s chest feeling tight.

“Guess you’re getting mercy today,” he spat across Lo’Gosh’s face. The human blanched in spite of himself, which only seemed to make the orc madder. Before he had time to draw in a breath, he was face-first and flush against the tent in Mazog’s pants, the lacings scratching his cheek and his nose flattened, painfully, by the force of his grip. 

Here they were again: the same story, the same accusations, the same bite in his voice as he hissed “your kind never showed mercy to me” like he expected Lo’Gosh to understand. But the human only knew labored breaths and the slick heat of pants all but stuck to his face. He only felt orcish eyes upon him— Mazog’s eyes and Rehgar’s, and the other orc’s as he lingered in the far corner of the cell. Broll and Valeera had since looked away out of courtesy, but their discomfort hung heavy, even palpable, in the air, and only made him feel worse.

Dusty, ashamed, awash with cold sweat and confusion, the only thing left for him was to yield. Tilting his chin into Mazog’s palm, he slid shaking fingers up to unlace his pants. After fumbling with the cord, he finally managed to pull the knot loose, and then the orc’s cock pushed free. It rested against his forehead; the ring through his slit was already slick. The musky, sweaty smell overpowered him and he scowled, parting his lips, sliding his hand down to grasp the orc’s base and trying to hold his breath. 

But Mazog just pried him off, replacing his uncertain hand with a more deliberate one and shoving his head against Lo’Gosh’s lips. “Oh, eager, are you?” He chided, though Lo’Gosh was anything but. He huffed and he swallowed, and then, tentatively, flicked his tongue against Mazog’s ring. That earned the desired reaction, but Mazog’s moan didn’t last long, and soon his hand was back in his hair and he was tugging, yanking Lo’Gosh so hard that his knees burned from the friction. 

“Come on, I know you have more in you than that, _Lo’Gosh,_ ” he spat out his name like a curse. “Your people are all depraved. Don’t play coy with me.”

His people. Again, he felt at a loss, but he couldn’t protest with a cock shoved between his lips. Stretching his mouth around his head, he willed his face to relax. It took a moment but finally he adjusted and managed to take in his head. The orc grunted; he knew it wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him, but for now he furrowed his brows and willed his body to focus: on his length but not on his smell, on the hand at the back of his head but not on the accusations that poured from the orc slaver’s lips. 

“Put you in your fucking place,” he hissed on the heels of a gasp. Lo’Gosh just nodded; maybe that would get him to stop. “Wish we killed every last one of you. I’ll burn Stormwind again if I get the chance.” 

Lo’Gosh’s lips stilled with the head of his cock still pressed in his mouth. Blood drained from his cheeks but he wasn’t sure why. It must have been the ring flicking against the back of his tongue, or the way Mazog twisted his hair, but he felt like he was sinking, plummeting, and then—

“Hey, did you hear me? What’s this?” Forcing down that cold wave of dread, Lo’Gosh blinked and looked up. He thought for a moment that Mazog would slap him again, but instead he just tugged his hair, shoved him down, and then turned his head and declared, “Your little wolf’s useless, Rehgar. He isn’t worth the five thousand gold.”

“He’s smaller than you. Give him time,” Rehgar replied, and Lo’Gosh didn’t have to look past Mazog’s hip to know he was frowning. There was a sharp ‘clng’ which must have been his master shaking the door, and then his voice added, like the sting after Mazog’s slap, “Come on, boy. Put some conviction into it. Show us how you got Garrosh to fall for you.”

Not like this, Lo’Gosh wanted to growl. Garrosh would never treat him like this. But what his master had left unsaid weighed him down more than the insults, more than the chiding remarks about ‘pinkskins.’ He needed to do this right or Rehgar might never let him see Garrosh again. The thought left him empty. Hopeless.

He swallowed and squeezed closed his eyes. Reaching down in himself for an ounce of control, he forced more of the orc into his mouth, not stopping until his ring scratched the back of his throat.

And then, he gagged, and Mazog’s laugh rang in his ears. 

“Oh. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The second time came as more of a spasm, his throat constricting around the orc’s head and trying to force him out. But Mazog just kept pushing, splaying his palm across the back of his head and using that leverage to hold him down. Fighting to catch his breath, Lo’Gosh coughed. He slid back and got a moment or two of relief before the orc thrust in him again. 

Mazog’s ring tickled his tongue and made his throat shudder around the head of his cock, and with every thrust he pressed deeper, further than Lo’Gosh would have thought possible. Grasping his hair, Mazog forced his neck straight. The chain on his collar clattered and swayed between his legs, and when he squeezed closed his eyes tears rolled down his cheeks, joining the spit that leaked down his chin and dripping onto his chest. 

Between the orc’s smell and the way his throat struggled and fought against his intrusion, it took every ounce of power in Lo’Gosh to keep his stomach in check. He willed his mind to go elsewhere, but with no past to cling to and very few happy moments, it was hard to find a direction that didn’t lead to a painful ache. He thought of Garrosh wrapping his arms around him, but that only made him frustrated for what he could have had been having tonight. He thought of his victory in the arena, but then the orc cheers came back to him, just like the orc egging and chiding him now. 

Take it, pinkskin. You’re stronger than you look. Push down your fear and do it. This is all you were meant to be.

His jaw started to ache and, distracted, he scraped his teeth on the orc’s flushed skin. Before he knew what was happening, Mazog jerked and ripped out a few strands of his hair. He winced and looked up just in time to hear the orc hiss, “Bite me again and I’ll kill you. Do you hear me? I could have your neck snapped before Rehgar got into this cell.”

And from the strength of his hand pressed against his jaw to his fingers that spanned from his chin to the top of his collar, Lo’Gosh didn’t doubt him for a second. He just nodded, and swallowed, and cursed the wetness that leaked from his eyes. Fear coiled around his heart, and, holding his breath, he prayed for it all to stop.

But Mazog seemed to want his money’s worth, and every agonizing second seemed to drag on for years. He thrust, and Lo’Gosh’s throat ached and burned from distention. Every time he pushed deeper, the human found it harder to breathe, his airway blocked and his nose buried in a thick nest of orc pubic hair. All he could do was rest the palm of his clammy hand against Mazog’s hip for support, and, though in his better moments he would have pushed back, now dizzy and nervous and lost he only fought to hold on.

Each time he gagged he felt the orc twitch and growl, and whenever he managed to let out a gasp the vibration made Mazog’s thrusts erratic. It was one small glimmer of hope in the swill of his breathlessness; knowing the moment would end kept him hanging on, his fingers clutching the orc’s open pants and his eyes fighting to blink back reflexive tears. 

He kept his neck straight and tried not to wrinkle his nose when the orc’s hair tickled against it, tried not to think of the other orc looming behind him or the faint slapping sound he heard from…someone. Either Rehgar or somebody else, it didn’t matter. Someone was getting off on him being used and it made everything in him burn: with hate, with shame, with some kind of loathsome arousal that made him feel _worse_ than everything else. A few more minutes, and it would be done. A few more thrusts, and then—

Mazog’s release came suddenly. The orc jerked back his hips and yanked at Lo’Gosh’s hair, leaving his face—flushes and already wet—exposed to the cum that splattered him from brow to chin. Air flooded his lungs and he coughed, even retched, and finally he could slump forward. The saltiness that clung to his lips made them curl in disgust, but when he tried to wipe himself clean he just smudged his face with sand. 

His dizziness started to fade. What replaced it was something akin to a nightmare, with one orc leaning against the bars and trying to catch his breath while another approached him from behind. Rehgar stared, and Valeera grasped Broll’s shoulder with the color drained from her cheeks. Everything came back sharper, more poignant than he remembered, and with every breath he smelled him, his cum, the musk of his cock still lingering under his nose. 

And then it was time for customer number two. 

Lo’Gosh had hope, at first, that this one would be better than Mazog. At least the large orc who had lingered nearby in the shadows didn’t seem to have any kind of personal vendetta. Silent and strong, he approached Lo’Gosh from behind and, without comment or ceremony reached down and unlatched his belt. With a tug he revealed his ass to the dusty air. The human had little strength left to feel shame, not about his exposure, and not even about the state of his half-swollen cock. Just get it over, he thought. Just let him fuck me and be done.

But the human wasn’t prepared for what happened next. With a single jerk of his wrist this new orc scooped up the end of his chain and forced him down onto his hands and knees, dragging him back to the door. Lo’Gosh watched as his fingers left a trail in the sand, and then he heard a loud ‘clng’ above him, glancing up to discover the orc had used his leash to chain the cell closed. Links swung and clanked against the bars; the sound rang in another wave of dread, and Lo’Gosh swallowed, wincing at the ache in the back of his throat. 

He half-expected, half-hoped that Rehgar would raise some protest, but he didn’t. Instead, he took a step closer, and rubbed what was clearly a bulge in his half-open kilt between two of the bars nearest Lo’Gosh’s face. On his right, Mazog chuckled, and he couldn’t help but feel they were closing in on all sides. 

Even the orcs playing dice in the distance seemed to be getting louder, and there was nothing Lo’Gosh could do except press his forehead against the bars—breathing his master’s scent and readying himself for intrusion. 

Something wet splattered down Lo’Gosh’s ass, which he soon decided was spit. Dripping over his hole and onto his balls, it made him shudder, teasing him just enough to make his cock twitch despite his best wishes. Behind him he heard the orc spit again, this time rubbing his palms together and reaching down, spreading open Lo’Gosh’s cheeks with one hand while the other slicked up his cock.

And then Lo’Gosh felt pressure, firm, deliberate, and almost too dry to force his ass open. This orc was big—bigger than Mazog, bigger than Garrosh, even, or Rehgar—and at first Lo’Gosh thought he wouldn’t be able to fit. But the orc pushed harder, and Lo’Gosh’s hole fought back. It was too much, and no amount of pressing and opening back onto him could stop the hurt that came when his head stretched open his hole and he finally started to give— 

“Argh!” Lo’Gosh banged his head on the bars, wincing, but unable to distract himself from the pain. Above him, Rehgar let out a laugh, and his calloused hand reached through the slat to stroke the top of Lo’Gosh’s head. 

“That’s a good boy,” he cooed. Normally, teasing like this would have pissed Lo’Gosh off, but now it made something inside of him clench: something that coiled deep beneath the base of his cock. His stomach lurched, and he drew in a ragged breath. He didn’t want this. He knew that, and yet when Rehgar touched him and praised him, he couldn’t help but lean into his touch. 

Shame and pain and delight churned together as he dug his nails into the dirt, and it was almost, though not quite, enough to distract from the agony of being forced open by the orc positioned behind him. But then he clenched his hands on either side of Lo’Gosh’s hips and thrust in, and all at once the wolf was back at complete awareness. 

Lo’Gosh had never felt so suddenly full. The orc’s cock pressed against both of his walls and in past the second ring, and it felt like he was being stretched and filled on all sides. When he slid back, the underside of his shaft rubbed against him and sent a jolt from the base to the head of his cock. It was like when Garrosh’s fingers probed him, but firmer and ambivalent to its effect on his body. While Garrosh teased and praised, this orc took what he wanted, but Lo’Gosh’s legs still trembled. 

He had no choice but to lean against Rehgar, against his master’s cock now pressed flush against the bars. With each of his patron's thrusts, he rocked forward. His nose grazed the slaver’s shaft, and he growled, watching, murmuring again as if he knew the effect it would have on Lo’Gosh. “There you go. Good boy. I knew you knew how to enjoy this. You’re making your master proud.”

He didn’t. He wasn’t, but he pursed his lips and nodded in spite of himself. After another painful swallow he flicked his tongue forward to taste Rehgar through the cage, and the shudder he earned—a tremble that seemed to pass from his master to him—kept the tears off of his face when the other orc slammed him forward.

Again, he heard orcish noise in the distance. The gamblers were fighting with someone, their insults echoing off every wall of the chamber, but Lo’Gosh was too overworked to process anything more than “Where?” The orc behind him sped up his thrusts, and every time the intrusion made him feel fuller, more thoroughly claimed, than the last. 

The pressure against his wall made him ache. His muscles clenched, and his own cock throbbed and leaked between his legs. He was desperate to touch it, to relieve himself even if it meant conceding defeat to his shameful arousal and to the orc using his ass. But he was still chained to the door and one last shred of reason reminded him that if he lost his balance he could end up choked on the ground. 

Instead he was stuck at the mercy of master and patron pressing against him at both ends: one grabbing his waist and fucking him while the other jerked off on his face. He was caught in Rehgar’s scent and the low grunts and gasps the issued, unabashed, from his lips. Digging his knees in the dirt, he fought to stay steady, but it was hard, so hard, with his cock leaking and a low voice calling his name:

“ _Lo’Gosh?_ ”

But that voice didn’t come from Rehgar, and it certainly wasn’t from inside the cell. Lo’Gosh blinked and yanked at his chain, for the first time trying to look beyond Rehgar’s shaft and the bars on both sides. “Lo’Gosh?” It called again, but just as the pieces started to fall into place Rehgar cried out, pumping faster, squeezing his hand through the bar and seizing a chunk of Lo’Gosh’s bangs. 

“Agh, Lo’Gosh,” he cried, and then his cum splattered in streaks across the human slave’s face. It hit once, then again, adding to the filthy mix of dirt, semen, and tears that already left him caked. The orc behind him must have finished soon after, because when Lo’Gosh opened his eyes again he felt the cock sliding out, leaving him gaping, bereft of that pressure. 

He pursed his lips; it wasn’t enough to hold back his whine. He choked, ashamed of himself and the sound he had made, praying to whatever spirits might answer for either release or to be left alone—desperate as he was, he couldn’t be sure which outcome he would have preferred, but neither hope prepared him for what happened next.

Before he had time to process why Rehgar still lingered in front of him, smirking, with his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, something wetter and hotter than cum hit his cheek. It splashed across his lips and dripped down off his chin, and then the stream quickened and left him soaked. His master’s piss washed away some of the dirt and the cum, but what it left in its wake made Lo’Gosh’s face burn hotter. The orc’s smell overpowered him, and the taste—faintly acidic, and hot, too hot—wetted him from his hair to his shoulder and then down the length of his arm.

He barely managed to squeeze closed his eyes in time to avoid the stream. When he opened them again, he longed to go back to the darkness. 

Because when he looked past his master, he saw Garrosh, mouth slack, face red with shock and confusion, and his rage all but shaking the air. 

Lo’Gosh felt like the wind had been knocked from his chest. Rehgar had always said Garrosh wasn’t seeing him for what he was, wasn’t acknowledging that a slave and a warlord had no business together. But now, on his knees and chained, his hair sticking together with cum and piss and his cock still aching between his legs, there was no mistaking who he was and what his life meant to these orcs. 

He tried to lower his gaze; his chain swung against the bar, ringing in through the silence, as he sat back onto his heels. The change in position made the cum leak down his balls and onto his ankles and he shook, hands clenched at his sides, waiting in shame for Garrosh to turn away in disgust. 

But instead, Hellscream bellowed, “What have you done?” And Lo’Gosh’s shoulders clenched. Nausea washed over him. He tried to swallow it down, but his throat hurt, oh, it hurt, and the last thing he needed was to _cry_. 

He was so convinced Garrosh was yelling at him that he didn’t look up again until he heard a loud thud at the door. And then, through a sticky curtain of bangs he saw Garrosh shoving his forearm under Rehgar’s chin and digging his back into the bars. Rehgar spat, and Garrosh seethed. The door groaned so hard it seemed like the chain might snap, which gave Lo’Gosh a glimmer of hope. 

“How could you?” Garrosh repeated, forcing the slaver to tilt back his head and to meet his gaze. His gold eyes smoldered. Lo’Gosh could tell that Rehgar was fighting to look away. “How could you do this to him?”

“I did what any slaver would, _Hellscream_ ,” Rehgar shot back, but with none of his usual confidence. Lo’Gosh tried to look over at Broll and Valeera, to silently confirm that he shouldn’t be getting involved, but his leash kept him from turning his head too far. All he could do was watch: watch Garrosh’s face contort with rage, watch Rehgar’s toes struggle to stay on the ground, watch the puddle in front of him dry and disappear into dents in the sand. 

But then, Hellscream’s tone took on something else—something softer, almost pained—and he felt him looking past Rehgar and down at him. “Lo’Gosh?” He repeated. Clenching his jaw, Lo’Gosh forced himself to sit straight, and then he heard Rehgar’s feet hit the ground. 

“I can’t have you swooning over my property,” the slaver insisted, taking advantage of Garrosh’s shifting mood to jerk away from him, crossing his arms and as he knelt and looked through the bars. “Calling him pet names, boy? Don’t you know what he is? Lo’Gosh isn’t your boyfriend. He could die any day of the week, and there’s nothing you can do about that. The Warchief allows us to conduct our business.”

But Garrosh didn’t seem to be listening. His eyes were on Lo’Gosh, and his lips had fallen from scowl to frown. After tucking in his thumb the orc managed to squeeze his large hand through the slat where Rehgar had been moments before, and Lo’Gosh realized, face flushing, that he was trying to beckon him over.

“Lo’Gosh,” Garrosh repeated, his murmur not unlike the moments they had spent in his bed. The human squeezed closed his eyes and tried to fight down his shame, but Garrosh kept waiting for him to come closer, and he needed this. 

He needed someone to lie, to promise him his life was worth more than this. 

And so he nodded, finally, and leaned forward. His forehead pressed against the bars, and then Garrosh’s fingers were there: tucking back a strand of his hair, wiping the dirt and cum off his cheek. The pad of Garrosh’s thumb grazed his bruise, and he shuddered. No amount of pursing or biting could stop his lower lip from trembling slightly when Garrosh leaned close. 

“I’m sorry,” the orc all but gasped, and then, face contorting, he gave the whole panel a shake. Lo’Gosh could almost feel the storm of his rage kicking up and churning together with pain, with regret, with a confusing mix of emotions Lo’Gosh himself had experienced moments before, but Garrosh’s other hand remained steady and cupped against the curve of his messy cheek.

“How could you do this to him?” Garrosh repeated, his gaze flying from Rehgar to the orcs lingering somewhere behind him. “What the hell is wrong with you? With all of you? I’ll have your heads!”

Beside them, Rehgar just laughed. What should have made his master afraid just seemed to add fuel to his fire. “Welcome to Azeroth, Garrosh. You’ve had your little romance. Now you need to get over him.”

“No,” Garrosh insisted. He sounded so sincere, and Lo’Gosh didn’t know what to do. He just kept leaning and clinging to his touch, and to the promise Garrosh made when he lowered his voice. 

“No. I’ll buy you myself. I won’t let him do this again. The Warchief will free you, I promise. I won’t let him treat you this way.”

The words lingered in the air long after Rehgar pushed Garrosh away, long after Garrosh landed a blow to his master’s face that almost made up for Mazog’s cruel slap. He was unchained, and his patrons finally left, but the evidence of what they had done stained his cell and haunted him throughout the night.

Hurt and confusion washed over him like the mess that dripped off his body, and he couldn’t even bring himself to scoot over to Broll and Valeera. Orcish voices, the way he had hardened when they handled his body, even Garrosh’s empty promises left him soaking in shame. 

With so few happy thoughts in his head, it was impossible for him to cling to anything else but pain.


End file.
